Steve
by menolly-au
Summary: House's rat Steve McQueen starts showing symptoms after House exposes him to the cop's apartment in the episode Euphoria.


House stared down at Steve McQueen. The rat was racing around the cage endlessly, bouncing off the wire mesh, staggering and then resuming his frenzied flight. He didn't look particularly euphoric but then House had no idea how a rat would experience that state. The only certain thing was that this wasn't Steve's usual mode of behaviour.

He had to kill Steve.

The 'cane shaped object' he had mentioned to Wilson was out. After Steve died he would have to do a brain biopsy and couldn't risk the tiny brain suffering any physical damage.

Drugs were better.

He carried the cage over to the butcher's block in the middle of the kitchen, causing Steve to scramble as his home moved beneath him. The rat staggered back to his feet and resumed his frantic pace, this time climbing his wheel and then leaping off it to the floor of the cage. House pondered whether if he waited long enough Steve would do the job for him. But there was Foreman... His hand came up to rub at his forehead as he thought about the pain his employee was currently experiencing and the agony to come. If there was one thing House did know it was pain.

Not giving himself time for further thought he pulled the pharmacy bag towards him. The vial of morphine he'd prescribed to Foreman and one of the disposable syringes fell out and he quickly prepared the injection. No need to use much, there would be plenty left over to add to his own stash.

Steve had at last exhausted himself and it was easy to reach into the cage and pick up the small rodent. He lay quivering and shaking in House's palm. House reached for the needle and placed it against the rat's belly. As he was about to depress the plunger Steve turned and looked at him cocking his head to one side, just as he had in Stacy's loft.

House felt his hand trembling slightly and rested his elbow back on the table. Why was this so hard? Steve was just a rat, it wasn't like he was a dog or something...

Oh, that was why. Dropping the needle back to the table he rested his head briefly on his hand and pressed his fingers to his forehead as the memory came flooding back.

_He had been twelve at the time. Twelve, and living back in the States for the first time in four years. They were supposed to be here for a long stay this time. When their next door neighbours had moved out on assignment to Germany they had left their dog behind - a large mongrel called Tommy. John House had immediately assigned the care of the dog to Greg who had been agitating to be allowed to have a pet for many years. There had been a lecture about Responsibility which he had nodded respectfully throughout and the usual warnings to 'not let your mother and I down'. _

_He'd enjoyed taking care of Tommy. He was much better company than most of the kids on the base, idiots most of them. They spent most of the summer holidays rambling around the forest at the edge of the base. Strictly speaking he wasn't supposed to go in there by himself but Dad was working long hours and Mom was just happy he was outside and out of her way so he pretty much did as he pleased. It had been a great summer, one of the best of his life. Then Tommy had fallen down a ravine, bouncing off rocks on the way down . He was too heavy for Greg to carry back up the slope so he'd run for home and his Mom had called his Dad at work. Dad had come home in a jeep, his face clouded with anger at the interruption to his work. He'd snapped at Greg to get into the jeep and they'd made their way back to the ravine. Tommy was still lying there, two legs bent awkwardly beneath him and blood dripping from gashes along his side. He was whimpering in exhausted pain._

_Major House had done a quick examination of the dog and then returned to the jeep, taking out his rifle from the back. Without a word he had thrust it at Greg who had stood holding it, not knowing what he was supposed to do._

_"A man shoots his own animals Greg. This is your responsibility, you fix it."_

_"We can take him back Dad, the vet can..."_

_"No, both legs are broken, there are internal injuries. We're not wasting money on a vet to tell us what I already know."_

_"But...."_

_"That's enough young man! This is your fault and your responsibility. You were told not to come out here. Now, put him out of his misery so I can go back to work."_

_There had been no further argument of course. Greg knew how to handle firearms, he'd learnt at a very young age like every military brat. He approached Tommy, watching the dog trembling and knowing that he was in a great deal of pain. He lifted the rifle to his should and aimed down the sight. One clear shot to the head and he would end the pain. Just as his finger tightened on the trigger Tommy's head came around and he looked up at Greg wth soft trusting eyes. Greg jerked, the bullet went wide and into the dog's shoulder. The dog howled with pain._

_With a curse his father grabbed the rifle from Greg's shaking hands. _

_"Useless! Can't do anything right. Go back to the jeep Greg. "_

_Greg stumbled back up the slope to the jeep, wiping tears away from his face with his dirty sleeve. He heard the single gun shot, the yelp of the dog and then it was silent. His father returned to the jeep, slung the rifle in the back and drove off without a word to his son._

House picked the syringe back up, his hands steady again. He wouldn't make the same mistake this time.

Steve slipped quickly into sleep and then into death.

An hour later his little body lay in pieces on the butchers block and House sat back from his microscope with a sigh. Naegleria, that was what was killing Foreman.

It took only moments to call Chase and tell him. It would take a few hours for the treatment to begin to work. It was dark outside and there was no need to return to the hospital until morning. He placed Steve's body in a container in the freezer and dumped the empty cage by the door to take out to the bins in the morning. Grabbing the remaining morphine and the spare syringe he limped to the couch. It had been a hard couple of days physically and his leg was throbbing in its usual agony. Vicodin had been getting less and less effective lately and he has already exceeded even his daily limit. Reaching forward he took up the morphine and the syringe.

It took only a minute to inject himself and he laid back on the couch, sighing his relief. His eyes flicked to the empty cage sitting by the door.

"See Dad, I did it right this time."

His eyes closed and he dropped into a dreamless pain-free sleep.


End file.
